The Ladies' Picnic
by Courtesy
Summary: As a young girl, Amelia is expected to attend an annual picnic with her mother, and overall to be a lady. However, even now, Amelia dreams of the Etherium, and has trouble sticking to her ladylike demeanor.


(Disclaimer: I do not own the character Amelia-- Disney does. Michael Eisner certainly doesn't DESERVE such great characters like her, but--AHEM anyway…)

Author's Note: I see Amelia's childhood a little differently than what I've sometimes read in other fanfics. I've read a few things concerning her parents getting killed by pirates-- this doesn't work well with what I've set up in this fanfic because I don't see Amelia's parents as sailors; for some reason I always sort of figured she was born into a family of high status, and therefore she sticks out like a sore thumb, since she's very interested in things (like sailing) that other young ladies would look down on. I know it's different from what others have done, but it's okay to be a little original, right? =) Anyway, I hope you enjoy my story. R&R, people, I love to hear your opinions!!

The Ladies' Picnic

"Amelia, _please _put your hat on."

I looked at my mother defiantly, but begrudged her her request and slammed my hat back upon my head. "Thank you, sweetheart," my mother told me immediately after, but I said nothing, folding my arms in defeat. The hat was hot and scratched my ears, for I held them up pertly like mother had told me to, so that I looked as proud of my family and its status on the outside as I was on the inside. But I wasn't really that proud of it. I had deduced many years ago that if pride and status only made me the victim of scratchy hats and itchy ears, then I would just as soon have no pride and no status, and then be without the hats. I didn't see the good in status if all it did was give one itchy ears; but that's not all it does. It also makes one wear uncomfortable dresses that are very hot in the summer. In the summer while I was trapped in my petticoat, pleated taffeta, and bonnet, I could see the poor daughters of silversmiths and fisherman and such run about with nothing on but a little loose underskirt, sleeveless at the shoulder, and cutting short at the knees, whenever mother took me to town. I remember when I was little, I snuck away from my stiflingly boring nanny during an outing one day, and played with the young apprentices near the wharf all day until father drove passed in his carriage headed home and saw me. I had stripped down to my underskirt and had taken off my bonnet, and everyone was appalled. I remember being scolded relentlessly, and being commanded to never go out indecent and play with the boys again. I never did, but I shall always remember that day being the only summer day I was ever comfortable.

But I wasn't little anymore. I was thirteen--nearly a woman--and _absolutely _expected to enjoy being wrapped up in hot weather. It was stuffy in the carriage with mother, and my ears itched again since I'd put my hat back on. But I wasn't little anymore, and it was not my place to complain anymore, as mother had so often reminded me. I had to be reminded of that a lot, because there were so many things to voice a complaint over, but I had gotten better at keeping my mouth shut. It was mother's belief that children should be seen and not heard--which confused me a bit, because sometimes I was considered a woman, but when I would complain she would shush me and remind me that children should be seen and not heard. I wanted to ask her what I was, then-- If I wasn't lady, but not a child, then what was I?

"Amelia, stop scratching your ears," mother scolded me, and I dropped my hand to my lap. "Couldn't I at least keep my hat off in the carriage?" I asked. "No one will see me in the carriage. I'll put it on again when we get there."

We were going to a special, annual picnic, where mother and I would sit with all the other ladies of status and sip tea and try terribly heard not to squint in the sun because squinting didn't look proper. I remember when I was little I didn't mind the picnics so much because I was allowed to run round and play with the other children, instead of sit idle and sip tea with my pinky extended. I'll never forget the first year mother made me sit with the other ladies. I was ten, and I had just lifted my dress up to my knees to run after Michael Masters, one of the merchants' sons, when mother called me over and said, "Have some tea and sit with us, Amelia. Mrs. Perriweather would like to speak with you."

And then I sat down and Mrs. Perriweather asked me so many questions I couldn't leave. Neither she nor mother nor any of the other ladies would let me. So I spent the whole day with them, and never saw any of the games that Michael and the others were playing. And mother did that the next year, too, which I was at least sort of expecting, and by this year I knew it was my duty to find a place for myself on the quilt thrown down upon the grass for all the ladies and sometimes their husbands to sit on (husbands didn't have to sit, usually, unless they were old or wanted to. How I envied the husbands). This was to be my third year sitting with the ladies, and I was terribly apprehensive about it, for the weather today was rumored to be terribly hot indeed.

"No, keep your hat on, Amelia," my mother answered me. "We're really almost there, and you'll want it when you're in the sun. It shades your eyes. You know that, Dear." I told her of course I did, and we said nothing more the rest of the ten minutes it took to get to the picnic's location.

There were already lots of people there, throwing their quilts and things upon the grass to sit on, and greeting each other, and talking. The women were wearing many different-looking dresses and things, but the men were mostly wearing burgundy coats, some of them with tails, and they all had fitted breeches and silk stockings on, and carried walking canes, and wore hats, too, which were very tall and regal-looking ones. Father owned clothes and things like that, too, but father wasn't coming this year. He was away on business. I was so disappointed to find out about that, because sometimes father is the only one that seems sane round here. Mother says I take after father most, which compels her to add that she's never heard of such a thing; that she's heard of daughters taking after _mothers _and _sons _taking after fathers, and never vice-versa. I love to hear her say that, because then I always imagine a boy taking after mother, and putting on airs and wanting to wear bonnets and drink tea with his pinky extended.

There were lots of trees round the picnic place. We picnic in the same spot every year, because it is a beautiful place. There are hills sloping up to the right where the trees grow, and the picnic is down at the bottom of these hills. The children like to run up and down the hills and among the trees, but the adults usually stay together at the bottom of the hills where the picnic area is, and that is where I was to be confined among the ladies. But despite my pre-assured doom, I was happy to step down from the carriage and onto the grass when we arrived. My hat fell down over my eyes and I had to push it back up again as I hitched up my dress to sashay down from the carriage, and the sun glared into my eyes and burned. But I struggled to stop squinting just as soon as I realized I was doing so, and even made it out of the carriage gracefully, without stumbling, which I am known to do if my hat falls over my eyes. Then Michael Masters noticed me and waved, a good deal away, and without thinking I shouted at him, "Gracious, Masters, stop waving at me like that, you like you're happy to see me or something!" Mother immediately swatted my hand to hush me, for I wasn't being lady-like to shout across the hills, or to raise my voice at all, but I'd already shouted, and everyone was looking. I wondered suddenly if my hair had gotten ruffled because of my hat, and nearly blushed; no one really did anything, though; they all just turned back to what they were doing before, and Michael got a good laugh out of it, so I didn't feel as embarrassed as I think mother felt.

The picnic always brought everyone together, which brought everybody's food together, which was always interesting. It's fun to see how many different ways different people make mashed potatoes and things. There were so many good things to eat, and sometimes there were things I wouldn't touch unless I absolutely had to, at gunpoint, and to save a lot of people. But everyone was always so pleasant when they were all down at the picnic area and eating everybody's different foods. I've always liked trying new things; sometimes I wonder what it would be like to eat mashed potatoes made by someone from another planet and culture. Or something else, something they might find as common as potatoes, but something I would find as exotic as anything I've ever come across. That's always how things are: no matter how common someone might find something, that same something could be a whole new and different experience for someone else.

After everyone had finished eating, the children were allowed to run up the hill to play, and I despondently remembered when that used to be me as I sat down beside mother and prepared to speak with all the other ladies for the rest of the day. I said no thank you to tea because I had eaten too much and wasn't feeling up to digesting any more, and so the ladies sat round with tea and chattered and clucked about anything from the good weather and peoples' health to what their children might have done or said yesterday that was so precious, and what new business their husbands were getting into. Then someone would tell a string of stories about something or someone and they'd all laugh at the end of each of them, for everyone was supposed to be in a light humor and have a pleasant laugh or you weren't dainty. But one must remember that laughing too much isn't dainty, it's conspicuous; mother had to tell me that when I laughed too loud at Mrs. Court's story last year of how her corpulent husband fell off his horse and landed on the fox he was hunting, and managed to catch it because he'd landed on it. I laughed at that, like everybody else, but really had a good laugh when she told us that Mr. Court's arm was broken when he accidentally cracked it over the fox's head in his fall. Mother really swatted my hand that time, because that wasn't supposed to be taken in amusement.

So the women rambled on, and I sat there and made sure I was seen and not heard unless spoken to, which was rare at the moment. It got rather dull after a while, though, to listen to all the mixed and tousled voices of the ladies talking, and I decided for a little bit to lean out over the quilt and look at the grass. I did just that, and found a black beetle moving round the blades, trying to climb up them and always falling and getting up to try again, and I really admired the bug's determination as it tackled the blade again. I've always admired people with determination. I think that if one is determined and keeps trying, they might eventually succeed, even though what they're trying to achieve may seem extraordinary or unusual. Father told me that once; that persistence and determination are all one really needs to be successful. So I've always tried to be as determined and persistent as I can be, even though sometimes father says I've confused persistence with stubbornness. But I sort of think that one doesn't go without the other. It seems to me that if you're persistent enough to keep trying, you've got to be stubborn enough to never give up. But that's sort of just how I feel. The beetle was persistent, nevertheless, and I leaned over very far to watch him. He had managed to actually make it to the top of the blade when Mrs. Austen must have seen me, for I soon heard her say, "Why, Amelia, what in Heaven's name are you doing?"

I sat up straight very quickly again as mother whirled round to look at me, and I said hurriedly, "Nothing, ma'am, just listening."

"Is that so?" smiled Mrs. Austen. She was still rather young; only recently married. She used to be Ms. Piers. She was actually very gentle, and I liked her all right. "It looked as though you were looking at something in the grass there beside you," she commented.

"There was a bug…" I answered without thinking, and then shut my mouth as some of the ladies sent a thread of giggles around. Mother chimed in creamily, "She's just so curious! She's just like her father. Always wanting to do or see something new."

"Oh," said Mrs. Merrido, "my son John is the exact same way!"

"Yes, but boys will be boys," someone reminded her.

"Do you like to learn, Amelia?" Mrs. Johnson asked me sweetly.

"Yes, ma'am, I suppose I do," I answered. The women laughed again. "She supposes!" declared Mrs. Somes, taking a sip of tea. "Do you read? Do you like to read?" She was one of those women who asked the same question twice in two different ways.

"Read!" my mother answered before I could. "Her father taught her how when she was five or six years old, and she hasn't stopped reading since!"

"What do you like to read, Amelia?"

I had to think a little while. There were many things I enjoyed reading, but I supposed she wanted me to name some sort of genre of book, so I told her what I usually read. "Etherium stories mostly, ma'am. I like to read about sailors and ships and things."

"…Oh! I see," said Mrs. Somes, and I sort of got the feeling that I'd said something she wasn't expecting. "Sailors! My goodness, well… that's impressive, isn't it?"

All the women were quick to agree that it was indeed very interesting. My mother nodded and nodded away, and Mrs. Merrido asked, "How long has she liked reading _that_?"

And my mother gave her an approximate time period. I myself had to think about it; father used to read me stories of the Etherium ever since I was very little, even before I could read, and I was always intrigued by them. When I learned to read to myself I kept at it long after father was too busy to read to me. The Etherium was sort of just my every-day environment, ever since father read those books to me. It was only when mother suggested to me that I might read a book that a girl would read, almost three years ago, that I realized the Etherium may not be what I'm supposed to like so much.

The women chattered about that for a little while, which kind of made me feel embarrassed, and wish that I'd told them I read Dickens or Stevenson, but they didn't keep to the subject long, and talked about what their other children liked or disliked reading, and what sort of lives writers had, and they would joke about their silly second cousins aspiring to be novelists and how poor they would probably be. They didn't bother me for quite a while, and I soon became restless again. I didn't dare lean over to look at the grass again, though, because someone would see me. I decided I'd twist round a bit to look nonchalantly at the children playing, and when I did, I saw Johnny Ardell running down the hill after another, smaller boy, and gaining and gaining until at last he tagged him hard on the back, and then he raced back up the hill. I sighed. Johnny was fast; the only person fast enough to catch him at tag was me, and I was anchored to the quilt with the ladies.

"Amelia," I heard someone address me, and I turned quickly back around, "did you not hear me?"

The ladies giggled a little as I felt my ears lower a little for embarrassment. I quickly lifted them again and croaked, "No, ma'am, I beg your pardon. Might you repeat yourself?"

Mrs. Pettiwhite situated herself on the quilt slightly and said, "I says, 'What would _you _like to be when you grow up'?"

"Oh…" I hated these questions. A lady had asked me that once when I was younger, and I had told her proudly that I was going to be a captain of a fine vessel and sail everywhere on the Etherium and fight pirates. Both mother and father sat me down at home later and told me that those sorts of things were neither proper nor dainty, and that I had better find my place in the household as a daughter, and not go frolicking about saying I was going to sail the Etherium or any other such boyish nonsense. I was so terribly disheartened, and I didn't know exactly what I'd done, but I said that I wouldn't tell anyone ever again that I wanted to sail the Etherium. But I never promised them that I wouldn't stop wanting to be a sailor altogether. That was just too hard, and the books made the Etherium seem much too beautiful and wonderful to pass up. I still wanted to be a captain, even as I sat there about to answer Mrs. Pettiwhite, but I didn't tell her that.

"I… I'd like very much to be a lady, ma'am," I said, honestly enough. The ladies sent another thread of giggles round, and even mother laughed a little to herself. I looked at her to make sure I hadn't said anything wrong, but she actually looked happy with what I'd said, and I settled back, feeling very good to have pleased her and made her happy.

"Well! A young lady who reads sailor stories will provide interesting conversation at picnics, won't she?" somebody said, and I smiled a little sheepishly. If I had been a lady, and it had been my place to be both seen _and _heard, then I would have said it was about time some interesting conversation was provided, but I kept that to myself. But the women all chuckled again and didn't say anything else about it. Instead, Mrs. House asked me teasingly, which I didn't know what to make of, "And have you decided which sailor you should like to marry?"

Wedding a sailor didn't sound too bad at all, but I knew she was teasing me so I didn't tell her that, and the ladies laughed gently and mother patted my hand a little. I sat quietly until everyone's laughing died away, and I answered, "No, ma'am, I haven't really thought about that much…"

"Well, you just might ought to, I should think!" said Mrs. Court, her furry ears straight up. She was having a fine time talking; she loved to sit and talk. "Not marrying sailors, of course, but marriage in general--You're-- what? Fourteen? Fifteen?--"

"Thirteen, ma'am."

"Thirteen, then, thirteen-- You're getting to be near just the right age to be suited. People your age are all near just the right age to do so-- You say you want to be a lady? Then be sure to marry a gentleman! That's always been my motto. To be a good lady, you must wed a good gentleman."

The women chattered at that, and most of them agreed blandly, but I was uncertain. I have always wondered why it was that being a good lady solely depended on who you married. If I did marry a sailor I would lose my family's status; I knew that, and I always would, and because of that I would never marry anyone lower than me. But I was never much interested in stuffy old gentlemen like the ones all the ladies wed; they were always so dull, and so uninterested in books and sailing and the way other cultures and things were. Those things always fascinated me, and I'd decided a while ago that if I didn't meet anyone else who was interested in those things, I would simply never get married. I'd simply sail the galaxy all my life.

"You know, dear," Mrs. Masters piped up, fingering her teacup's embellished white handle, "Michael is just the right age for you."

'_Michael Masters!_' I thought to myself. '_How dreadful!_'

"He's mentioned you many times recently," Mrs. Masters added with a smile.

Michael and I were old friends. Ever since we were children I'd liked him, and he'd liked me. He'd always treated me like the other boys he played with, for I was always picking banters with them and getting us all into trouble. I liked the rain and the wharf and the insects and the dirt just as much as he did, and once he told me that he admired me, when he found me in the garden reading 'Galactic War Stories of the Interstellar Navy', and told me he would marry me. I had immediately retorted, "You'll have to catch me, first," and he never said anything more about it. However, he had apparently been more serious than I thought.

The ladies jabbered like monkeys about that, saying how fine that would be and how suitable our ages were and how compatible our families were. Mrs. Masters looked proud to hear everybody's approval, until at last Mrs. Austen turned and consulted me about it. "What do you think of Michael, Amelia?"

"He's very nice, ma'am," I told her. Before I could continue someone said it sounded like there were wedding bells ringing, and everybody laughed. "Yes ma'am," I consented, "but…" I could tell I was in hot water. If I said Michael would be all right to marry, then it meant I might actually have to, when we were both old enough, and that wouldn't give me any time to go sailing and be a captain. I sat a for a short while, and decided I might as well be honest and tell them that Michael was all right, and a perfect gentleman, but I wasn't interested in marriage and that I was going to do other things. Yes, that sounded acceptable. I wasn't going to say _what _I wanted to do, after all, so no one would be appalled, and I wasn't putting Michael down, so no one would be offended. I pursed my lips and said quietly, "…But, I'm not sure I want to be married."

The ladies were silent for a few moments, which made me feel uncomfortable. I thought, I've probably said something wrong. Then Mrs. Somes said, "Don't want to be married? …Don't want to be wed to _any_one?"

"No, ma'am. Not to anyone."

The ladies again sat in what struck me as perplexity. I really was beginning to feel uncomfortable; I was already hot, but there was a new heat now that crept along the back of my neck, and I lowered my ears before I knew what I was doing. I didn't really look at any of them because it felt like everybody at the picnic was looking at me. Then Mrs. Pettiwhite wondered aloud, "But… What will she do with herself?"

"Well!" Mrs. Somes chirped, "I do believe I have heard tell of unmarried women! They get by, but not very well. This is a man's world, you know. Independent women, with no husband to care for them, it's… well, it's…"

"Unnatural," someone offered decidedly. That made me gulp. I really had said something wrong. I felt very embarrassed, but rather angry, too. I wasn't unnatural at all.

"Yes!" someone else agreed. "Quite irregular indeed. Ladies of careful breeding require careful husbands to tend to them. Women mustn't work to keep a home and raise a family. As they say: 'A lady's hands are always soft'."

That struck me differently. I always felt like work was all right. I could do just as much as the boys could when I played with them; how different was that concerning work?

"Now, now," my mother struck in. "I'm sure Amelia was only trying to be humorous. She's no less natural and regular than I am, or I have been mistaken for thirteen years. You _were _trying to amuse the ladies, weren't you, darling?"

"I…" I was feeling a little insulted. I didn't think getting married was such a big, important thing. The ladies all felt that women couldn't take care of themselves, but I didn't think so; my own mother had taken care of me for thirteen years, and that, I could promise anyone, was a much harder job than if she were only to take care of herself. It didn't seem very fair; but I didn't say anything, simply, "…Of course, mother."

For now, that was what my mother needed me to say. I was still too young to declare anything by myself, and so as long as I was still too young, I would behave accordingly. I liked it most when mother was happy, and therefore would make sure I tried to behave-- at least try-- before I went off by myself.

The ladies all relaxed a great deal to hear that I really wasn't unnatural or irregular. They all chattered on and on, but I didn't listen to them anymore. I started to think that, if I was persistent and determined enough, and actually succeeded and became a sailor and a captain, then perhaps I'd change their minds. Even if it were just a little bit. Perhaps I could prove them wrong. I smiled a little to imagine what their reactions to me sailing into port one day and supervising the crewmen would be. I could just see Mrs. House and Mrs. Johnson's eyes get very wide; Mrs. Merrido and Mrs. Pettiwhite would gape: the one thing they thought was the least dainty thing to do. And Mrs. Somes and Mrs. Court would flop over and faint dead away, to see me up in the rigging, or on the bridge, wearing a uniform, with my hair cut short, and living an exquisite life all by myself.


End file.
